


Homecoming

by windstar127



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-24
Updated: 2013-05-24
Packaged: 2017-12-12 21:04:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/816049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windstar127/pseuds/windstar127
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anora and Cauthrien's reactions to the aftermath of Ostagar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Anora

It was odd that the first thing she felt was relief instead of sorrow. She watched her father with dry eyes and a still face as he paced and ranted and planned for what was to come. He noticed her silence, her lack of tears, and paused in his tirade.

"Anora, my child, are you well..."

"I'm fine, Father," she said, and strangely enough, she was. It occurred to her that perhaps she should feel _something_ , to weep and tear her hair and rend her gown, but no, just a sense of vague satisfaction that she would no longer have to pretend her sham of a marriage was anything but. She'd always known she would marry Cailan. That had been arranged when they were both but babes in arms by their fathers, to forge an alliance in blood as well as in word. So she knew her duty, and did it, but though Cailan was grateful for her political accumen and keen insights (for it meant he had more time to play at being a hero), he preferred women less...well...intelligent...to warm his bed.

He once said, not caring that she might overhear, that he was thankful benefits of being king included star-struck maids to compensate for the barren frigid bitch he'd wed. Thoughtlessly cruel, and though his words had wounded her pride, she'd never let him see it.

A pity she had not been born a man. She did not hate him, no, for that would have taken too much effort to sustain, but she did pity him for his foolishness.

It was a marriage of politics and convenience for them both. Her, for the power she could wield in his name, and him, for a way to legitimately abandon his duty. Now it was over, and she would no longer have to pretend she loved or respected her husband and king.

"I'm sorry I could not do more to save him, daughter, but he would not heed my counsel."

"It's fine, Father, I knew what he was like," she shook her head. "Our losses, were they..." her voice trailed off, and her heart raced suddenly as she realized who she had not seen at her father's side. Strange she had not noticed sooner, for she had just assumed the knight would always be there, standing at the door or a mere arm's length away. Where was Cauthrien? Where was the knight with dark steady eyes whom she'd known all her life?

"Greater than I would have wished, less than I had feared," her father replied. "Half the army's still intact, give or take, no thanks to the Wardens."

"And what of...of the men of Maric's Shield?" It was not the question she wanted to ask, but that one was not proper for a just-widowed queen. Was her knight dead and gone? Dragged off by darkspawn and her body desecrated? Anora's voice trembled as visions of might have been assailed her. Had she remembered to say goodbye before they'd left? She did to Cailan but oh, why could she not remember?

"Minimal, thank the Maker. Cauthrien should be back with them within the week. Thank the Maker I kept them back."

"Oh. That's good," she could breathe again, having been unaware of holding her breath in the first place. "Thank you, Father, for what you've done. You could not have done more, I'm sure. But if you would excuse me, I think...I think I should go prepare..." For Cailan's funeral, for the coming war...for... She did not let herself finish the last thought. _For Cauthrien to come home._

"Yes, of course, child. Do not let me keep you," her father nodded in acknowledgement.

She cried later, when she was alone in her rooms, but even she could not tell if her tears were of grief for the dead or of joy for the living.


	2. Cauthrien

Black banners flew in the early spring wind from the walls of Denerim, the heavy silk rustling and snapping in the stiff breeze. A feeling of subdued panic and subtle desperation mingled with the grief in the air. The city mourned for the young golden king and feared for its future. The news of the slaughter at Ostagar arrived with her lord long before she did. He had sped from battlefield on the fastest horses he could find to warn the court and the queen of the dangers to come while she stayed behind with what remained of the army to turn a rout into a semblance of an organized retreat.

The army camped outside Denerim, those that haven't run off yet anyhow. Between the slaughter of the king's men and the waves of desertions that followed, she'd be amazed if they were at a third strength. At least the men and women of Maric's Shield (Maric's Shield, not Cailan's Shield) were made of sterner stuff, with only a quarter of the losses. Much as she hated it, much as it rankled her heart and soul, she couldn't help but think her lord was right in withdrawing when he did. The Shield would not have turned the tide of battle, not against an endless wave of darkspawn...but they could have rescued the king. With heavy losses, certainly, but they could have saved him. That much she knew.

Which made it all the worse.

Cauthrien made one final survey of the camp before taking her leave. Her lord would expect to see her at the first opportunity.

She felt the queen's eyes on her as she approached the city gates. There, at the ramparts, stood a slim figure clad all in black, long golden tresses unbound and loose about her shoulders like a cloak. A pang of guilt and grief rose from her heart. How could she face her queen after what she had done? She forced down the fear and schooled her face into a mask of control. Duty first. Duty to her lord first, and she could deal with rest later. If there was a later.

Her queen greeted her just inside the city gates. A thin silver circlet rested on her brow as the only sign of her rank and position. The hem of her gown dragged in the mud, but she did not seem to care. Her eyes were the blue of sapphires cut from the heart of summer, just as Cauthrien had remembered, though now they were rimmed with red from lack of sleep or weeping.

"Welcome back, Ser Cauthrien. Your journey was uneventful, I hope?" her queen's voice was calm and steady, as if she had just returned from a routine patrol of the countryside and not from a slaughter that resulted in the death of her king. 

"As well as can be expected, Your Majesty," Cauthrien said. 

"My father expects you to meet him in the throne room. He has declared himself as my regent, as you no doubt will hear. He also will not tell me exactly what transpired," the queen (the woman she made a widow) laid one slim white hand on Cauthrien's wrist, and Cauthrien forced herself to meet her queen's gaze. "Will you have time, you think, to speak with me after my father finishes?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," Cauthrine nodded once. Even if she had wanted to otherwise, what else could she say?

"Then I will expect to see you again this evening. Do not be too long."

* * *

It was hours later, past sunset and well into the night, before Cauthrien had a chance to obey her queen's command. She slammed her hands on the washstand in her room at the palace and let the rough wood bite into her palms. What in the Maker's name was her lord thinking? When she had entered the throne room, she almost did not recognize the man she had sworn her service to. That man would not have had a goblet of wine in hand since before the noontime bell nor allied himself with the sniveling shifty-eyed cur of a man that was Rendon Howe. Their meeting left a sour rancid taste in her mouth. She did not like Howe and nor did she trust him. (And he, as much as she could tell of him, thought even less of her.) Yet it was clear her lord did, and Howe would take advantage of that if he had not already. And she was powerless to stop it. It was not her place to go against her lord's wishes, even when he stripped her of her command of the Shield and assigned her to guard Denerim instead. Whether it was originally her lord's idea or Howe's she did not know, but there had been a look of strange relief in his bloodshot eyes when he handed her the sword, his sword won from the Orlesians, along with the key to the city gates. Perhaps it was not so much an assignment to constrain her so much that it was she was the only one he trusted to watch over the city...and the palace and his only daughter the queen. She hoped it was the latter rather than the former, and if she tried hard enough, she could almost convince herself of it.

But that was neither here nor there, and she had an appointment yet to keep. A splash of cold water in her face revived her spirits long enough for her to finish dressing. Gone were the chain shirt and steel pauldrons and in their place she wore the black on black uniform of full mourning that some considerate soul left on her bed.

The queen was waiting for her, and, in all likelihood, had been for waiting for her for quite some time. "Ser Cauthrien," the queen said, standing up from her writing desk. Folds of a black silk dressing gown flowed around her, and her rich golden locks were pulled back into a loose tail with the tips just barely brushing the backs of her knees.

"Your Majesty," Cauthrien knelt on the stone floor and bowed her head. "You wished to see me?"

"Arise, ser knight. There is no need to stand on ceremony here."

Yet Cauthrien did not. Could not. Instead, she stared at the flecks of quartz and feldspar embedded in the granite floor until a light touch on her shoulders forced her to look up. Her queen, her golden queen with the sapphire eyes, stood over her, and she found that she could not turn away.

"Cauthrien, get up," Anora's voice held a tinge of amusement as she helped Cauthrien to her feet.

"Your Majesty..." she started, but the words died in her throat. She turned away, unable to meet those searing blue eyes. "Anora...I couldn't. I couldn't save him."

"Tell me, my knight, what happened at Ostagar?" Anora asked gently, her hands still resting on Cauthrien's shoulders. "My father refuses to speak to me of it, so will you tell me what he will not? I think I deserve to know the truth of it."

She could not refuse, not when her queen, not when _Anora_ standing only an arm's reach away, asked it of her. The words tumbled out slowly in a jumbled mess, burning her throat and her soul as she spoke. First of the initial plan and the two young Wardens sent to carry it out, and then of appearance of the horde itself and how the king rushed to meet it. Her voice faltered at times, but it did not crack or break, not even when she spoke of the lit beacon on the Tower and the order with silent tears streaming down her face.

"I would have gone back for him, for the king," Cauthrien said. "We could have cut a path through and gotten him out, and I would have done it too, but milord, milord he stopped me and bade me do as he commanded. So I did. Rallied the men and called the retreat. I can hear them scream still, them that we left behind to die...your Majesty...Anora...you must hate me for being a such a coward...for not..." She could not continue but simply wept. It was then that she noticed Anora's arms around her, enfolding her in a warm embrace. 

"Hush, my dear one, my dear Cauthrien," Anora whispered, "If you'd gone back, you too would have died and for what? A lost cause, and I do not want to lose you." She pulled back just enough to reach up and wipe away Cauthrien's tears and held the knight close again. "I'm just...glad...that you're back. That you're safe. When Father returned, I'd feared the worst, and it wasn't until I saw you that I could really believe it. I grieve for Cailan and his follies, but my knight, my dear one, I would have grieved far more had I lost you."


End file.
